Frog (24 page)

Gugu said she staggered out of the restaurant, headed for the hospital dormitory, but wound up in a marshy area on a narrow, winding path bordered on both sides by head-high reeds. Reflected moonlight shimmered like glass on the water. The croaks of toads and frogs sounded first on one side and then on the other, back and forth, like an antiphonal chorus. Then the croaks came at her from all sides at the same time, waves and waves of them merging to fill the sky. Suddenly, there was total silence, broken only by the chirping of insects. Gugu said that in all her years as a medical provider, travelling up and down remote paths late at night, she’d never once felt afraid. But that night she was terror-stricken. The croaking of frogs is often described in terms of drumbeats. But that night it sounded to her like human cries, almost as if thousands of newborn infants were crying. That had always been one of her favourite sounds, she said. For an obstetrician, no sound in the world approaches the soul-stirring music of a newborn baby’s cries. But the cries that night were infused with a sense of resentment and of grievance, as if the souls of countless murdered infants were hurling accusations. The liquor she’d drunk, she said, left her body as cold sweat. Don’t assume I was drunk and hallucinating, because as soon as the liquor oozed out through my pores, leaving me with a slight headache, my mind was clear. As she walked down the muddy path, all she wanted was to escape that croaking. But how? No matter how hard she tried to get away, the chilling
croak
–
croak–croak
sounds of aggrieved crying ensnared her from all sides. She tried to run, but couldn’t; the gummy surface of the path stuck to the soles of her shoes, and it was a chore even to lift a foot, snapping the silvery threads that held her shoes to the surface of the path. But as soon as she put her foot down, more threads were formed. So she took off her shoes to walk in her bare feet, but that actually increased the grip of the mud, as if the silvery threads created suckers that attached themselves to the bottoms of her feet, so powerful they could rip the skin right off. Gugu said she got down on her hands and knees, like an enormous frog, and began to crawl. Now the mud stuck to her knees and calves and hands, but she didn’t care, she just kept crawling. It was at that moment, she said, when an incalculable number of frogs hopped out of the dense curtain of reeds and from lily pads that shimmered in the moonlight. Some were jade green, others were golden yellow; some were as big as an electric iron, others as small as date pits. The eyes of some were like nuggets of gold, those of others, red beans. They came upon her like ocean waves, enshrouding her with their angry croaks, and it felt as if all those mouths were pecking at her skin, that they had grown nails to scrape it. When they hopped onto her back, her neck and her head, their weight sent her sprawling onto the muddy path. Her greatest fear, she said, came not from the constant pecking and scratching, but from the disgusting, unbearable sensation of their cold, slimy skin brushing against hers. They drenched me in urine, or maybe it was semen. She said she was suddenly reminded of a legend her grandmother had told her about a seducing frog: A maiden cooling herself on a riverbank one night fell asleep and dreamed of a liaison with a young man dressed in green. When she awoke she was pregnant and eventually gave birth to a nest of frogs. Given an explosion of energy by that terrifying image, she jumped to her feet and shed the frogs on her body like mud clods. But not all – some clung to her clothes and to her hair; two even hung by their mouths from the lobes of her ears, a pair of horrific earrings. As she took off running, Gugu sensed that somehow the mud was losing its sucking power, and as she ran she shook her body and tore at her clothes and skin with both hands. She shrieked each time she caught one of the frogs, which she flung away. The two attached to her ears like suckling infants nearly took some of the skin with them when she pulled them off.

Gugu screamed and ran, but could not break free of the amphibian horde. And when she turned to look, the sight nearly drove the soul out of her body. Thousands, tens of thousands of frogs had formed a mighty army behind her, croaking, hopping, colliding, crowding together, like a murky torrent rushing madly towards her. As she ran, roadside frogs hopped into the path, forming barriers to block her progress, while others leaped out of the reedy curtain in individual assaults. She told us that the loose-fitting black silk skirt she was wearing that night was being shredded by the sneak attack. Frogs that swallowed the strips of silk were thrown into a frenzy of cheek-scraping from choking before they rolled on the ground and exposed their white underbellies.

She ran all the way to a riverbank, where she spotted a little stone bridge washed by silvery moonlight. By then hardly anything remained of her skirt, and when she reached the bridge, nearly naked, she ran into Hao Dashou.

Thoughts of modesty did not enter my mind at that moment, nor was I aware that I’d been stripped naked. I spotted a man in a palm-bark rain cape and a bamboo coned hat sitting in the middle of the bridge kneading something that shimmered in his hands. I later learned he was kneading a lump of clay. A moon child can only be made from clay bathed in moonlight. I didn’t know who he was, and I didn’t care. Whoever he was, he was bound to be my saviour. She rushed into the man’s arms and crawled under his rain cape, and when her breasts came into contact with the warmth of his chest, in contrast to the damp, foul-smelling chill of the frogs on her back, she cried out, Help, Big Brother, save me! She promptly passed out.

Gugu’s extended narration called up images of frog hordes in our minds and sent chills up and down our spines. The camera cut to Hao Dashou, who still sat like a statue; the next scenes were close-ups of clay figures and of the little stone bridge, before returning to Gugu’s face, focusing on her mouth as she continued her story.

I awoke to find myself on Hao Dashou’s brick bed, dressed in men’s clothes. He handed me a bowl of mung bean soup, the simple fragrance of which cleared my head. I was sweating after a single bowlful, and was suddenly aware that I felt painfully hot all over. That cold, slimy feeling that had made me scream was fading. I had itchy, painful blisters all over my body, I spiked a fever, and was delirious. But I’d passed an ordeal by drinking Hao Dashou’s mung bean soup; I’d shed a layer of skin, and my bones ached dully. I’d heard a legend about rebirth, and I knew I’d become a new person. When I regained my health, I said to him: Big Brother, let’s get married.

When she reached this point, Gugu’s face was awash with tears.

The program continued with an account of how Gugu and Hao Dashou together produced clay dolls. With her eyes closed, she said to Hao, whose eyes were also closed and who was holding a lump of clay in his hands: This child’s name is Guan Xiaoxiong. His father is five feet, ten inches tall, has a rectangular face with a broad chin, single-fold eyelids, big ears, a fleshy nose tip, and a low bridge. His mother is five feet ten, has a long neck, a pointed chin, high cheekbones, double-fold lids, big eyes, a pointed nose tip, and a high bridge. The child is three parts father and seven parts mother . . . In the midst of Gugu’s verbal portrait, Guan Xiaoxiong was born in Hao Dashou’s hands. The camera zoomed in for a close-up. His features were crisp and clear, but he wore a hard-to-describe doleful expression that brought me to tears.

I accompanied Little Lion on a visit to the Sino-American Jiabao Women and Children’s Hospital. She had wanted to work there, but had no one to open the door.

My first impression as we stepped into the lobby was that it looked more like an elite private club than a hospital. Cool breezes from the air-conditioning system took the bite out of a midsummer day. The background music was pleasant and relaxing, the fragrance of fresh flowers surrounded us. Inlaid in the wall facing us was the hospital’s logo in light blue and eight oversized words in pink:

Say Yes to Life, Embrace Trust and Hope.

Two lovely young women in nurse’s outfits with little white caps welcomed guests with broad smiles, bows and soft voices.

A middle-aged woman in a nurse’s outfit, wearing a pair of white-framed glasses, walked up to us. May I help you, sir, madam? she asked cordially.

No, thank you, we’re just here to look around.

She invited us into a waiting room to the right of the lobby. The room was furnished with a large wicker table and chairs, a simple bookshelf filled with glossy obstetrics-related magazines, and a tea table on which fancy brochures introducing the hospital were laid out.

After filling two glasses from a water fountain for us, she smiled and left us alone.

As I thumbed through the material, I came across the image of a middle-aged female doctor with a bright forehead, long curving eyebrows, friendly eyes, frameless glasses, white, even teeth and a beatific smile. A photo ID was pinned to her breast. Text above her left shoulder read:
The
Sino-American Jiabao Women and Children’s Hospital is the modern obstetrics hospital of your dreams. The cold atmosphere of other hospitals is absent here, replaced by warmth, harmony, sincerity, and a sense of family. You will experience true royal treatment . . .
text above her right shoulder read:
We abide strictly to the international medical standards set forth in the Geneva Convention of 1948, practising medicine with scruples and dignity. Our patients’ health takes precedence over everything else, and we take pains to maintain patient confidentiality. We strive to protect the lofty reputation and noble traditions of the medical field . . .

I sneaked a look at Little Lion, who seemed to be frowning as she skimmed a hospital brochure.

I turned the page. An obstetrician whose look inspired confidence was measuring the mounded, shiny abdomen of a pregnant woman. She had long lashes, a high nose bridge, lovely lips, and a ruddy face; absent was the gaunt, weary look of most pregnant women. A line of text across the doctor’s arm and atop the woman’s abdomen read:
We maintain the deepest respect for life beginning at the moment of conception.

A man of medium build and thinning hair, dressed in brand-name casual wear, stepped briskly into the lobby. His self-assured airs and slight paunch told me that he was a person of position, if not a high official, then a man of wealth. Of course, he could have been both. He had his arm around a tall, slim young woman whose goose egg yellow silk skirt swished back and forth as she walked. My heart skipped a beat. It was Xiao Bi, the office manager at the bullfrog farm run by Yuan Sai and my cousin, the multi-talented Xiao Bi. I quickly lowered my head and held the brochure up to cover most of my face.

I turned to the next page, where, in the white space to the right and below a beautiful swollen abdomen, five naked infants sat in a row. Their heads were all turned to the left, a hint that someone off the page was playing with them. Round heads and puffy cheeks formed an adorable arc. Though their expressions were hidden, the arc itself formed an innocent smile. The hair on three of the heads was thin, the other two thick and full, black on two, golden yellow on one, and light yellow on the other two. All had large, fleshy ears, a sign of good fortune. Having their photographs in the brochure was a blissful sign of being favoured. They looked to be about five months old, barely able to sit up, their waists still sort of twisted. They were fat and round as little piglets, their protruding belly buttons visible under the folds of their arms. Their bottoms were flattened out, the two cheeks squeezed together, separated by a cute little crack. A dozen lines of text appeared to their left:

Our family-centred obstetrics services are tailored to communication between the pregnant woman, including those in labour, and our high quality medical team, with an emphasis on medical education.

The middle-aged man and Xiao Bi walked up to the front desk, where they spoke briefly to the receptionist before being led by an elegant woman to seats in a VIP area to the left of the lobby. They sat in brick red high-backed chairs behind a table with a vase of mauve roses. The man sneezed, and nearly made me jump out of my chair. It was a strange and distinctive sneeze, loud as an exploding detonator that triggered a memory. Could that be him?

Our doctors initiate detailed conversations with the pregnant woman and their family regarding the state of the woman’s health, the state of the foetus, the mother’s nutritional and exercise routines, and other concerns.

I desperately wanted to share my discovery with Little Lion, but she was too focused on the brochures, muttering as she read. How can they call this a hospital? Who can afford to stay in a place like this . . . With her back to Xiao Bi, she hadn’t noticed their arrival.

Apparently concerned that they were too conspicuous, the man stood up, took Xiao Bi by the hand, and walked over to the coffee shop at the rear of the entry hall, separated by large pots of tortoise-shell bamboo, with their jade green leaves, and a potted banyan tree whose leafy branches nearly touched the ceiling. The wall behind a fireplace was papered in a red brick design. The coffee shop was equipped with a bar with a rack filled with brand name liquor. A young man in a black bowtie was brewing gourmet coffee whose fragrance blended with the floral perfume to produce a sense of nurturing.

The hospital is also equipped with a rehearsal room for women late in their pregnancy. Delivery options are discussed with doctors and nurses, based upon the pregnant woman’s particular situation, and a mother-to-be classroom, all structured to enhance communications between hospital staff and patients, who are given unlimited opportunities to make their needs, concerns, and questions known.

He sat there with a cup of coffee, talking intimately with Xiao Bi. Yes, indeed, that’s who it was. A person can change the way he talks, but not the way he sneezes. A person can turn single-fold eyelids into double folds, but the greatest plastic surgeon alive cannot change the look in a man’s eyes. He was talking easily and laughing no more than twenty metres from me, totally unaware that a childhood friend was watching him. And as I watched, the wicked and merciless Xiao Xiachun, no longer with single-fold eyelids, separated himself from the body of the distinguished man.

It’s hopeless! Little Lion said dejectedly as she tossed the brochure onto the table and leaned back. US-trained doctors, French-trained graduates, medical college professors . . . top medical group in the country . . . the only way they’d let me in here would be to clean the toilets . . .

We were from the same hometown, we lived in Beijing at the same time, and yet I hadn’t seen him even once. I recalled how his father had paraded up and down the streets shouting, My son has been given a job at the State Council! after graduating from college. He spent several years in an office there before being taken on as the secretary to a bureau chief, and from there he took a post as deputy Party secretary somewhere. Then he left public office and became a real estate mogul worth billions . . .

The elegant woman who had greeted us located the two of them and led them out back somewhere. I shut the brochure I was reading. The back cover showed the hands of a doctor and a pregnant woman, all resting on her swollen belly. The text at the top read:
Mothers-to-be and their children are family to us. We provide the best treatment found anywhere. You will be able to soak up our atmosphere of sweetness and experience the blessing of total care and attention.

In a complete funk as we left the hospital, Little Lion used every hackneyed political expression she could think of to excoriate these modern developments. I was too occupied with my own thoughts to pay attention to her. But her monotonous chatter started to bother me. All right, madam, enough sour grapes!

Rather than get angry with me, she just coughed up a bitter laugh and said, All a rustic doctor like me is good for is raising bullfrogs at Yuan Sai’s farm.

We came back here to live in retirement, I said, not look for work.

I have to find something to do, she said. Maybe I can work as a live-in wet nurse.

Enough, I said. Say, guess who I just saw?

Who?

Xiao Xiachun. He changed his appearance, but I recognised him.

Impossible, she said. What would a rich man like him be doing back here? You must have mistaken somebody else for him.

If it had been my eyes, possibly, but not my ears. No one on earth sneezes like him. Then there were the look in his eyes and that laugh. He couldn’t change those.

Maybe he’s come back for another big investment, Little Lion said. I hear we’re going to fall under Qingdao administration before long. When that happens, the price of land and houses will shoot up.

Now, guess who he was with?

How am I supposed to guess that, Little Lion replied.

Xiao Bi.

Who?

Xiao Bi, the girl at the bullfrog farm.

I see, she said. I knew she was a slut the minute I laid eyes on her. There’s something unclean about her relationship with your cousin and Yuan Sai.